home sweet home

There is that old cliché that says, “Home is where the heart is”. Well for the past 25 years my heart has been nestled in the foundation of 5235 NE 193^rd Place Seattle, WA 98155.

My heart is now flitting around and has settled somewhere in Paris (eerily enough), and not because I feel that my heart no longer belongs to the misty-moisty northwest, but because my adorable parents have cruelly yanked me out of my childhood by selling their beautiful suburban mansion and moving downtown to a glace palace (albeit a very chic and well-maintained palace located conveniently next to one of my favorite happy hour places. Ever.).

The would-be site of character building...

 Now that my childhood is over, some of my latent adult dreams have died as well. These dreams largely involving me shipping my unborn children across the ocean to spend time with Opa and Grandma for some august fun: weeding on the bank, learning the 87 functions of bleach, staining the deck, the joys of pressure washing and concocting that magical-Myrnie-formula…formula zappo…who knows, maybe they too could have wept going through their scales in the kitchen, or learned the time-step in the garage…now my unborn offspring just get to look forward to geriatric bbqs overlooking ze space-euuhh niidle-euuh and strolling to ze Pike Place market-te to get slapped in the face by an errant feesh.(Enter Gallic shoulder shrug, lip puff and a well-placed euuuhhhh.)

I obviously understand that my parents shouldn’t be ruled by their bricks and mortar (though those bricks were laid by a certain maternal grandfather), but they just don’t understand that my anchor, recipient of dental bills, college loan letters, storage for shoes, sweat pants and lots and lots of music is now lost to me forever. I’m not even going to go into the fact that I didn’t get to say ‘good-bye’ to our house, spend one last Christmas there or scrape off the wall where Andrew and I have been measured with pencil-lines since we could stand…lest I start hysterically sobbing, or getting into the white wine too early…sob gasp gasp.

I have moved 8 times, including twice across the pond between ages 18 and 25. I have no idea when I will be able to buy a house, fill it with crap and then make my own children cry when I eventually sell it…probably to move in with Emily Hansen at Washington Oaks Retirement home in Everett…but I do know that I am devastated to part with so many memories, the soft squishy love-chair, and the magical kitchen that now belongs to someone else.